


all the words you cannot say

by wreckageofstars



Series: all the words you do not speak [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Deception-arc, Gen, I am so sorry for this, Mutism, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckageofstars/pseuds/wreckageofstars
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead. Ahsoka and Anakin struggle to pick up the pieces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fits in during the Deception arc, prior to Obi-Wan's funeral. I was watching it the other day and I guess my brain wasn't quite finished with it? Thematically tied to 'all the words you do not speak' (and kind of?? plot-tied?? but) because I wasn't finished with that Temple garden yet, so I've put them together in a series, though I think it's readable without the other. It's short and not that happy, but that's the Deception arc for you.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you thought!
> 
> \- W

The dream she was having wasn't hers.

She wasn't quite sure how she could tell, but it was the truth. The Force felt all wrong, too bright, too cold, too much. Like it couldn't fit inside her head, when usually it slotted into place like an old friend.

 _Master_ , she thought, mired in pain so thick and cloying she felt as though she might suffocate in it and she hurt too, of course she did, but not like this, not so bright, not so cavernous, this _wasn't hers_ –

She was set adrift, lost at sea, tetherless, unanchored, the water darker and deeper and colder than water had any right to be. And it still wasn't hers, because Ahsoka was afraid of many things (though not many she would admit to) but never before had any body of water, no matter how cold and dark, instilled in her this suffocating wonder and terror, this all-encompassing fear. Like something that would swallow you whole, latch on to you, alone and adrift and drag you to the depths.

She was drowning. Only, no, that was wrong, it wasn't _her_ , and her head was pounding, the not-water churning around her, the not-sky bright and cold like a dead star, heart stuttering in her chest –

 _Master_ , she thought again, hoping to wake them both, wanting him out of her head before it split, before he hurt them both, knew he wouldn't forgive himself, _Master, please_ –

She gasped awake, forehead damp and cold with sweat, montrails ringing, the pallet her master had dragged onto the floor for her digging into her back. She shuddered, face twisting, but she wouldn't cry, she _wouldn't_.

“There is no emotion,” she breathed, voice cracking. “There is peace.”

She focused on the unfamiliar contours of the ceiling instead, the way the gloom of late night threw odd shadows across the smooth architecture, the pod-racing posters and starship schematics plastered haphazardly to the walls. Waited for the pressure building behind her eyes to seep away.

An extra blanket had been tucked around her while she slept. She hadn't had to ask; just like she hadn't had to ask to spend the night. Had only shown up at the door to the quarters her master had shared with Master Kenobi, admirably blank faced but unwilling to spend the night alone, in the dark. Padawan dormitories were too stark, too empty. She would have slept on the floor to avoid it, curled herself up on the monstrosity her master called a sofa and made it work, but he had pulled a pallet out from a storage compartment and settled it on the floor of his room without her having to say anything. Wordlessly shoved a cup of earthy, bitter tea that wasn't his into her hands and gone off in search of extra blankets, the door to Master Kenobi's room remaining closed and silent.

He hadn't spoken to her after that either, had sent her to bed with a glance and a gentle nudge with the Force. She'd been too tired to protest, too tired to heatedly insist that he do the same, but as she glanced over to the untouched bed to her right, head still aching, she felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't.

She stood, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders like a makeshift cloak. He was near, at least. The Force was gathered thickly around him, dark and dense, a shadowy beacon. She wondered how no one else in the Temple could sense it. Wondered, if they could sense it, why they hadn't done anything about it.

“Skyguy?” she asked, voice echoing oddly in the gloom as she pushed aside the door to the sitting area. Coruscant's moon, barely visible through the haze of light pollution, threw watery shadows on the scant furniture, on her master hunched over on the sofa, robe wrapped around himself tightly. She stepped closer, footsteps breaking up the eerie stillness. “You were dreaming,” she said. “I – ”

And something hard and painful caught in her throat, a spark of something that wasn't quite anger. More like helpless frustration, rising like the tide. And maybe it was unfair of her – who was she kidding, of course it was unfair, she of all people knew how close they'd been, how much Anakin had loved – well. How much he had cared for him. But she was younger than him, smaller than him, less wise than him and she didn't know what to do and he was meant to say something to make it better _,_ make it _less,_ make it _mean something_.

But he hadn't said a word. Wouldn't say a word, even now. Would only look at her bleakly, shadows cavernous under his eyes as she felt that familiar pull of the sea-that-wasn't, cruelly set adrift. It set her teeth on edge, made her stomach twist into more knots than it already was.

 _It's not fair_ , she thought, searching in vain for peace, for calm, for something to remind herself that she was still a Jedi. That she was still in control. That she wasn't attached. That it wasn't supposed to hurt this much. _You're supposed to be the one that looks after_ me.

And some of it must have leaked into the Force, made its way traitorously across their training bond, and she watched his face grow more pinched, his lips twist with chagrin. Broad shoulders drew up, air cycling in shakily. She watched with a dull, crackling sympathy as the words caught in his throat, spun uselessly in his mouth for a long, painful silence that ended with the quiet snap of his jaw as he gave up.

A tentative, hesitant curl of apology, sent across their bond. Bright, but tempered. It didn't hurt.

“It's okay,” she said quietly. “I miss him too.”

He gazed at her for a moment, eyes bloodshot. Extended his real hand, calloused, rough. She took it and pulled him to his feet, frowning when he didn't immediately let go. He said nothing, though the air, the Force, twinged with some expectation. An eyebrow raised, questioning.

“Whatever you say, Skyguy,” she replied, gratified when his lips twitched ever so slightly, going along without complaint as he lead her out of his quarters, out into the dimly lit hallway. She followed him, hand clasped in his, blanket trailing behind her as her shorter legs fought to keep up with his longer stride. There was no curfew, for masters and their apprentices, but the quiet sneaking through darkened hallways reminded her of being a youngling, of dragging an unwilling Barriss out into the dark sometimes, just to say that they had.

“Where are we going?” she whispered as they passed the Council chambers, quietly curious despite the circumstances.

 _Wait_ , he didn't, couldn't, say, though the sentiment settled into the back of her mind regardless.

So she closed her mouth and followed him, through the thick, quiet darkness of the Temple at night, the soft hum of the sleeping Force, marred only slightly by the thrum of discord surrounding them. Followed him down the long, shadowed corridors until they reached the Temple gardens, watery moon shining down from the open ceiling, the normally vibrant grass a washed-out grey. There was no breeze to rustle the trees and the plants. No sound except their breathing.

Ahsoka didn't understand.

She drew a breath to speak, to ask, but before she could she was pulled onto the grass, lead to the centre, where the sky was most visible, where the moon shone the brightest. Her master sat and dropped her hand, so she followed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the night's chill. The grass felt cool and damp underneath her.

 _What are you trying to say?_ she thought. _What are you trying to show me?_

 _Peace,_ he thought back at her, though he had none, the very word feeling cracked and broken and unattainable. And she caught a glimpse of the garden in the sunlight, grass weaving in the breeze, the novel trickle of the fountain irresistibly, impossibly, interesting. Of a small hand, not yet calloused and rough, clasped in a grip that was smooth and firm and comforting. _Peace_ , he thought to her again, the Force twisting with loss, and there was pressure building behind her eyes, the shadowy garden shifting and distorting under her watery gaze. _Or as close to it as I ever found_.

Ahsoka closed her eyes, felt tears, cold and wet, trickle down her cheeks. Felt the gentle grasp of hands much larger than her own pull her in, the scratchy material of Anakin's robes rubbing up against her cheek. Heard the stuttering hitch of his breath against her montrails as a hand came up to cradle her head.

They sat together for a long time, the moon passing serenely over their heads, the stars made invisible by the planet's lights and smog.

 _Peace_ , Ahsoka thought, heart twisting, one hand tangled in her master's robe. He still hadn't uttered one word. On the outside, he was unnervingly silent. Not a natural silence. Not a peaceful silence. It was the sort of silence you felt before the rain and the thunder. The silence you felt before you plunged over a precipice. The kind of silence brought about because there were no words.

 _We are lost_ , she didn't say. _Our peace died with him_.

They were untethered now. Untempered.

Her master's hands were shaking. They breathed together, the eye of a storm, the Force wrapping around them turbulently underneath the starless sky.

What did he always say to her? When things went truly, horrifically bad. When everything felt hopeless. He was a terrible liar, but he tried anyway. Would clasp her upper arm comfortingly, eyes pained, and say –

“It'll be better in the morning,” she said into his chest, feeling the lie wash over them like the tide.

Like the peace that would not.

 


End file.
